


Shades of Dark

by marchingjaybird



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Tim just has to be still and trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Dark

Tim can't count the times that he's had stitches. It's a hazard of the job, one that he's become inured to over the years. The initial pain is fleeting and the lingering tender ache is… well, it's something that a guy can grow fond of, if he's the right kind of guy and he has the right attitude about the whole thing.

Aside from once, when it happened as Tim Drake and not as Robin, he's never gotten stitches at the hospital. It's too risky, Bruce says, and he sees the logic in that. He can't go in the costume, and if he kept showing up as Tim, cradling a new wound every couple of months, people would wonder. They would assume that Bruce was hurting him. They would take him away.

Alfred is a better doctor anyhow, excusing the rips in his costume – which is the most upsetting part for Tim – with a sort of old world grace that Tim has never tried to emulate but has always secretly envied. His hands are soft against battered flesh, barely there at all, and it seems like the whole ordeal never lasts more than a few minutes. Then Alfred excuses himself and exits the room and the scene plays out again.

Bruce detaches himself from the wall, crosses the room like a shadow. He checks the bandage, examines the stitches, as though any fault could be found with Alfred's work. It's just an excuse to touch, Tim knows that now. The first few times, he thought it was just concern that blossomed into something else. He knows now that it is all part of some strange ritual of personal reassurance that Bruce puts himself through.

He shifts his touch, fingers splaying along Tim's ribcage. Still cased in leather, they are cold and distant, clinical almost, the exact opposite of his usual caress. Tim has grown accustomed to the difference, though. A part of him embraces it. There will be plenty of time later on for warm hands and grasping fingers when he's twisted up in the sheets on Bruce's massive bed. This is something strange, an exchange that belongs more to Batman and Robin than to Bruce and Tim, though Bruce has always sworn to him that the masks will stay out of the bedroom.

Bruce is still wearing the mask, but the Cave is hardly the bedroom, and Tim lets it slide.

Fingers splay across his chest and he draws a slow breath. He always forgets how _big_ Bruce is, how the span of one hand can cover nearly his entire ribcage. He's grown considerably in the years since he started this gig, but never enough to catch up, never enough to even come close. But that's the way Bruce likes him, lean and small, and on nights like this, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Bruce looms over him, swathed head to toe in shades of dark. It's hard to see his eyes behind the mask but Tim stares into them anyhow, knowing that Bruce is looking back. Bruce always looks back.

A thumb skates across his nipple and Tim gasps softly, arching his back. Bruce doesn't react, apart from repeating the motion. There's a distance in the way he carries himself, almost as though he's afraid to let something out. Tim has his suspicions, but he learned a long time ago not to discuss personal motives with Bruce. It's a conversation that never ends well.

Cold leather hands dip down to his waist and he leans back, propping himself on his hands, gaze unwaveringly fixed on Bruce's face. It's meant to show that he's not afraid, that he's never afraid of anything, but he can't help the flinch when Bruce's fingers slip past the waistband of his sweats to wrap around his prick.

It's amazing that the leather never seems to heat up, that the gloves add so much weight, so much power, but don't seem to impair his dexterity at all. Tim tips his head back and moans as sense-deprived fingers search out exactly where he likes to be touched. It's a cold sort of pleasure, and it makes him feel dirty somewhere deep inside, but he moans and sobs breathlessly, hips hitching up off the table as Bruce draws him closer and closer to the edge.

He doesn't try to touch. It's a sort of unspoken rule. Every motion in this little vignette has been planned out, and his part is to spread his legs and keep his palms glued to the table and just… trust.

Bruce twists his wrist and the subtle change in pressure unfolds an explosion of pleasure in Tim's belly. He cries out, closes his eyes, sobs Bruce's name as he comes. Cold fingers withdraw and he slumps down, flushed and weary. Bruce extends his hand and Tim leans forward without thinking about it, tongue curling out to lick the come off of Bruce's glove.

The leather is shining by the time he's finished and he turns his head, sucking a finger into his mouth and stroking it with his tongue in an effort to warm it. It's a heady taste, chilly and sharp and acrid, and the seam rasps against the tip of his tongue as Bruce withdraws the digit and wipes the moisture off on Tim's cheek.

"Go upstairs," he orders. "I'll be there soon."

And Tim obeys, never thinking to question what it is Bruce does in the Cave after he leaves. There are simply some things that you don't need to – or want to – know.


End file.
